Graham didn’t let Warren finish; he was already striding out of the foyer and into the great room. His heart pounded in his chest at the sight of the casket in front of the empty fireplace, though he couldn’t see the body yet.
The body.
He couldn’t conceive of his sister as “the body.” Not yet. Maybe not ever.
It was where Mary should have taken suitors, entertained guests, and hosted her engagement party. He pictured her surrounded by children, beside her loving husband, their mother laughing at the little ones’ antics.
Instead, Mary lay cold and lifeless in her casket.
He approached slowly, taking in her appearance with as much care as he possibly could. Her golden hair was bound in a knot, her body wrapped in black wool with a touch of lace at the collar. He could just barely make out where the horse had kicked her in the head—a touch of crusted blood still in her hair, which had doubtlessly been washed. Graham covered his mouth with his hand at the scent of roses, lavender, and just a hint of decay.
No, no,no. This couldn’t be sweet Mary… not his darling little sister.
Graham knelt beside his sister’s casket and bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “Mary… oh, God, Mary, I’m so very, very sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have been a better brother to you. I should have been here to protect you, to ensure you had the future you deserved.”
He closed his eyes and saw her before him once more as she had been the last time they met. Smiling, a lock of hair twirled around her finger as she stood and looked after his carriage as it made its way down their long, sandy driveway. She’d waved with her free hand while their mother stood beside her, a lonesome expression on her face.
Mary on the other hand had never lost her sunny demeanor or never let her smile slip. Had she been angry with him? She must have been, for he’d abandoned her. Or had she not yet realized how much time would pass before they’d see one another again?
Graham’s eyes flew open. They would never see each other again. The memory he had was of the last time his sister had seen him and the last time he had seen his sister alive. Of the two, only he had been afforded the chance to see the other again—albeit in a very changed condition. A lump had formed in his throat at the realization.
It was only then that he wept, pressing his thumb and index finger against his eyes in an attempt to stem the tears. His dark-blond hair fell across his forehead, his skin taking on a chill now he was inside and drenched from the rain.
“It wasn’t your fault, Your Grace,” a quiet voice said from behind him.
Graham’s head snapped back to find the source of the voice, almost convinced it was Mary herself. Instead, he found Jane, his sister’s maid, watching him from the threshold to the foyer.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Your Grace,” Jane hurriedly said, curtsying low. She wore a modest black dress and white apron, her plain brown hair tied into a severe bun. Her face was pale and drawn, her mouth in a tight line—almost as if she had seen a ghost herself.
“It’s all right, Jane,” Graham said. “You may stand—and you haven’t offended me. I don’t typically hold to the same rules as many of my station.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said.
Graham realized then that she was trembling uncontrollably, her brown eyes locked steadfastly on the marble floor. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve been visited by a spirit.”
“I am…” She paused, chewing on the inside of her lip. “I’m mourning, of course. Lady Mary was dear to me; one of my closest friends. I miss her.”
Graham crossed his arms over his chest, composing himself. He didn’t want the girl to see him weeping; he had hoped to a moment alone with his sister. “Mary was always an excellent rider,” he said. “I’m still puzzled as to how it happened. I couldn’t believe the news when I heard.”
Jane’s chin wobbled as if she might cry, but she merely drew further into herself. “Lady Mary was an excellent rider, yes. But she could also be reckless. And she trusted… too easily, and too often.”
“Her horse, you mean?”
“Of course,” Jane said. “Her horse.”
She reached out to grip the grand piano in the corner, her hand lighting on the keys with a discordant plink. Graham took a step toward her with a frown, watching as she went pale. “Jane, are you quite all right?”
She nodded, though she didn’t look all right at all. “I’m fine, Your Grace.”
“You look unwell.”
“I’m…” She paused, then her eyes went wide. “Oh, Your Grace!”
Jane collapsed right in front of Graham, and he rushed forward to catch her. “Warren!” Graham called. “Warren, bring help!”
A small group of servants was upon them in mere moments, Warren leading the brigade. Soon, Jane was whisked away and out of Graham’s reach—just as she had seemed to be preparing to let something slip.
“What happened, Your Grace?” Warren asked, shaking his head. “Was she ill?”